There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. It is putting all my dreams out of joint.
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